The Fellowship
by Hiron Otsuki
Summary: Long ago a vast war was fought, a great evil defeated, and a ring of secrets lost. The war faded into shadow and vanished. Now, accompanied by way too many people with way too many skills, can Frodo end the legend?
1. Volunteer Hours At The Lemonade Stand

Title: The Fellowship. (as of right now, that is)

Author: Hiro No Tsuki  
Series/Movie: Lord of the Rings.  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairings: Most likely none that weren't in the original books. (That means 'maybe, maybe not,' and if there are any, like as not it'll be slash.)  
Warnings: Beware prolific use of Artistic License.

Quick Note: This is the expanded version of the first (and only) chapter of Modern Lord of the Rings. It will eventually be expanded more. There is more on the way, but bear with me, in the meantime. Questions and comments should be directed to and I do need a beta writer. I have only my meager research skills and a few of Tolkien's books to go by for references. (I'm don't trust the internet there, because a lot of people just put whatever they think they can remember.) Any assistance in that area would be much appreciated.

* * *

Frodo- . Thanks. 

Digi ender- I hate writing in first person, anyways. Here's the better version.

Chimbo Baggins- Nuuuu. :-P That's just the first part.

YamiKinoko- Sorry about that. My early stuff was never really clear on certain things… But here is a much, much cleaner, and expanded version.

It's a slow start, I know, but I work on it every day at school when I have time, and afterwards.

And here is the new version of chapter one.

* * *

The Foreword. 

Long, long ago, in the Medieval Era on the Continent known as Europe, there was an ancient war, like none which Men had ever seen before. It all began with one evil creature learning the secrets of the Elven-smiths. He went, at least to them, by the name of Annatar, and learned the secrets of forging a Ring of Power. There were twenty Rings that were forged at the time that were connected to him. The ones able to resist his will were the Three of the Elves, since Sauron, for that was his true name, had no part in their forging. However, the other sixteen were not as lucky. The Seven created for the Dwarf-lords were not all useful to Sauron. He was able to recover only three of them, for the other four had been consumed by Dragons. Each of the Men given one of the Nine was proud, and great, yet they too, fell under the dominion of the One Ring, and so became Ringwraiths; the Nazgul. The last, and the greatest of all of the Rings of Power, was the One Ring, forged by Sauron himself, in the great Mountain Orodruin. Being forged by Sauron himself, and having a good bit of the Dark Lord's own power vested inside it, had the power to command the other Rings, and magnify the power of its bearer.

Some time later, there was a great resistance, and the last alliance of Elves and Men came to be in a last desperate attempt to end Sauron's reign of terror. They succeeded, but more of how that came about shall be told later on in the story.

For now, however, the Ring vanished for hundreds and hundreds of years, and was thought to be lost, and eventually the Ring, its legend, and the War with its forger faded into obscurity, and only a select few remember any of it. Sauron was thought to be dead, and, despite contradictory eyewitness reports from those at the scene, many of those few thought that the Ring was destroyed. But that was to be proved wrong, after the two-thousandth year of the Sacrificed God had passed…

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'_God it's hot,_' thought Frodo Baggins, as he walked the makeshift streets of the Renaissance Festival. It felt like it was a hundred degrees, and even though he was wearing semi-light clothing, compared to what others chose, he was still broiling.

He wiped the sweat off of his forehead with the now very damp sleeve of his formerly white shirt, and wondered when it was going to end. A fan of these things he most definitely was not, but that was mostly because of the heat, and location. The damned Festival was located along the sides of a local lake, and the mosquitoes were not improving his mood. He needed the service hours, though, and consoled himself with the knowledge that he only needed to spend another two weekends until he had the required service hour amount to graduate.

'_What idiot decided that we needed eighty friggin' hours?_' he wondered dazedly as he settled back into his position at the soda vendor, trying to edge as far under the umbrella as he dared. They didn't even get a truck, and he had to share a rather small umbrella with his boss, an old, smelly fart who slept all the time and made Frodo do all of the work. Not that the high-schooler was complaining. Every minute that the man spent sleeping was one less minute that he was complaining about the heat and the teenagers who would come up and order half a dozen drinks, then come back five minutes later to return three of them.

A customer came up to the cooler-cart, and Frodo took her order- a Diet Pepsi- and her money, and gave her the drink. '_Just another day in the life of Frodo Baggins,_' he thought. Then his mood brightened, for two of his friends, who loved the Festival, had spotted him through the crowd and were pushing toward him.

"Frodo Baggins!" one yelled over the noise of the crowd.

Quickly, Frodo pressed a finger to his lips in a mime for silence. If the old guy woke up and saw that Frodo was talking instead of serving non-existent customers, he'd be pissed.

The two nodded back, and came over more quietly.

"Frodo! What're you doing here?" asked Merriadoc 'call me Merry' Brandybuck.

"Working. I never got my service hours, so I'm here," he informed them.

"So you're working with Old Sourpuss, eh?" Pippin asked. His real name was Peregrin, and he liked it well enough, but the German English teacher had never been able to pronounce his name right, and one day, he had finally told her, "Call me Pippin," and the name had stuck. Now he was only called Pippin when he was in trouble, or at the Renaissance Festival, as he was now.

"Old Sourpuss?" asked Frodo, puzzled.

"Yeah. He used to sell lemonade, but then the man with the frozen stuff came along, and nobody wanted to buy his stuff anymore, so he moved on to soft drinks. I knew him back then, too, and he was as much of an old fartyhead then as he probably is now."

"Oh." The name completely suited the hag.

"How many hours do you need?" Merry asked.

"Uh… I've got twenty, and I still need sixty. So I'll be here for the next three weeks." He said sullenly, thinking of how much more of a bastard that the old man would become in the coming weeks.

Pippin _tsk_ed. "Now, Mister Frodo, I thought we'd taught you better than that. The service hour people never call to check up on the hours you actually did. All you need to do is write down double your hours, and voila! You have all of your hours in half the time."

"Is that what you did?" he asked. It sounded just like something that the two troublemakers would do to get out of real work.

"Of course," Pippin said, as Merry tried to look innocent. "You think we want to hang around, stacking books in a library for eighty hours?"

"Well, no-"

"There you go," Pippin cut him off. "Just double the hours, and Sourpuss there'll never know." He winked, and Frodo was starting to think longingly of all the hours he wouldn't have to spend in the godforsaken park with the mosquitoes and the old fart bellowing at him every five minutes.

He glared at the two boys, and said, "Fine, but if I get in trouble, I'll find you. You know I will. And then you shall pay. Oh how you shall pay."

Merry looked nervous. "Now calm down, Mister Frodo." He grinned. "After all, that's what we're for. Senior-pranksters extraordinaire, that's us."

"Right," Frodo said dryly. A sort of cough-snort came from the geezer in the chair, and Frodo glanced at his friends. "You should go before you get me in more trouble."

The two just grinned. "Us?" Then they were gone, vanished into the noisy crowd with naught a trace, leaving Frodo with a now semi-awake and fairly irate old man that was glaring at him accusingly, though Frodo was sure that he hadn't heard a word of the conversation. He sighed, and turned back to the crowd, trying to appear attentive.

===========================================

The 'stupid, young, irresponsible teenager' walked down the almost empty back road of the Festival, heading for the exit. It was now almost sunset, and Frodo wanted to get out before the damned bugs sucked him dry. There was a rustle in the bushes that was his only warning before a long, dry hand clamped itself around his upper arm, and dragged him through a small opening in the bushes on the side of the road. Frodo was flung to the far side of the small clearing that he found himself in, with a withered old man blocking his exit. Was this a new booth or something? A familiarity in the man's features caught Frodo's eye, and he found himself studying the man hard. The guy almost looked like- '_no, it can't be!_'

"Uncle Bilbo?" he asked, which immediately set the old man off babbling about Mount Doom, and Sauron, and a Ring, how some Ring had to be destroyed, and Elves.

Elves? Elves don't exist; they were only a fairytale. Frodo hadn't even heard of Sauron? Was Sauron a place? No- the old man babbled something about Sauron being the forger of something that was lost in spittle, so Sauron was a person. A Ring? What Ring? The man obviously needed help, but Frodo didn't really want to be the guy's rescuer. He had a generous heart, but generosity usually stops when it comes to dealing with a crazy person. The man lunged at him, and grabbed a handful of the bundle of costume and Frodo's leather jacket that was in the teenager's arms. Frodo yanked it away, and stumbled back out of the clearing. The sun hit him full in the eyes, and it blinded him after the shadows of the glen. When he was finally able to see through the dazzle, the opening in the bushes was gone.

'_Okay, what the hell?_'

Cautiously, Frodo edged over to the bushes and poked them cautiously with a foot. Nothing.

'_Whatever. I'm going home._' And Frodo left the Faire, putting his leather jacket on as he reached the parking lot, and he stuffed the costume in one of the saddlebags of his old motorcycle. He gunned the motor, and sped off down the dirt road leading out of the lot.

A half an hour later, he reached his home in Shire County, and rolled his bike into the garage. He yelled a greeting to his parents, their old friend, Gandalf, (old? The guy looked like he was a million years old!) and headed to his room, intending to wash the sweat and grime that tended to accumulate on everyone at the Festival, even if you were only there for five minutes. He dropped the costume on the bed and shrugged his jacket off, and felt for his keys in the pocket. Everything he was wearing needed… a… wash. His thoughts slowed as his questing ingers touched something cold, hard, and round, and it definitely wasn't a penny. What was that? He felt around, and was surprised to pull out a golden ring that reminded him of a simple wedding band.

He rolled it around in his fingers, and studied it. It didn't look like anything special, but the sixty-four thousand dollar question was,

'_How the hell did I get this?_'

* * *

Hiro: Er- opinions are appreciated. 


	2. Losing Someone Dear To You

Just for the hell of it, here's another chapter of the presumably doomed-to-fail modern Lord of the Rings.

**x.X.x.X.x.X.x.** is scene change.

And let the killing spree begin! (Yes I'm perfectly aware that they died in a boating accident, and yes I'm aware that it was _way_ before the events in Lord of the Rings, but for convenience's sake, and the fact that this makes for a convenient twisty plot, it happens here.)

* * *

**The Fellowship, Chapter Two: Losing Someone Dear To You. **

"Lot 666, a gold ring found in the pocket of our very own high school senior, Frodo Baggins!" He muttered, bewildered by the ring's appearance.

He peered at the inside, trying to figure out if there was any inscription inside, but found nothing. Not even a karat number.

"Joy. Well," he said as something occurred to him, and he grinned. "Finder's keepers. Well… okay, giv_ee_ keepers."

And he promptly put it inside of an envelope and sealed it, put it in a drawer, and forgot about it.

**x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x**

Frodo sat at his desk and tapped his pencil in a random beat listlessly. American Government had to be one of the most boring classes in his high school career. Too bad that it was a required course. He'd stopped taking notes back in first quarter, and now just scrapped off of Sam's notes whenever he needed to study for a test.

"So since President Nixon did the Watergate scandal thing _after_ he did all of these other nice things, he's now seen as one of the worst presidents that we've ever had. Any questions?"

Pippin raised his hand.

"Mister Took?"

"Well, you see sir, when Nixon messed with the tapes, wouldn't he have-" Pippin was interrupted by a knock on the door.

Mr. Preece opened it, revealing an emotionless Principal White and a saddened Nurse Reat.

"Mr. Preece, could we borrow Mr. Baggins for the rest of the period?"

"Of course." He turned to a surprised Frodo and made a shooing motion. "Off with you. Don't forget that homework is page two-thirty nine, one through nine in your textbook."

"Yes, sir."

Frodo gathered his books and stacked them untidily before shoving them underneath his arm and following the Principal and the Nurse out of the room.

Pippin cast him one last glance and a whisper- "Run while you can!"

Merry added to it. "Rat us out and you're dead!"

Frodo rolled his eyes and grinned goofily at them before closing the door behind him.

Once he was in the hall, the two women turned to face him. "Mr. Baggins," the Nurse began quietly. "We have some rather distressing news for you, and we feel best that it would be best for you if you were told in Mrs. White's office. Please prepare yourself."

Wondering what could possibly be wrong, he followed them down the hallway to the Administrative office.

Once inside, he received some pretty weird looks and a few glances of sympathy.

'_What did I do to get _their_ pity?_' What was he getting blamed for now?

Principal White ushered him into her office and into a chair, then closed the door. They weren't alone, though. Sitting in one of the chairs was-

"Gandalf!"

His blue eyes regarded the teen gravely. "Frodo, I have some bad news."

Frodo sat down. "Whatever it is, I didn't do it," he protested. Was it about the packing peanuts in the Drama teacher's car? Merry and Pippin. The shaving cream bomb in the teacher's bathroom? Merry and Pippin. The cherry Kool-Aid in the school's water supply? Three guesses. Most things that they did, Frodo was dragged into even if hehad an alibi.

"Frodo-" Gandalf swallowed, and Frodo could have sworn that there was a sheen of tears to the old man's eyes. "Frodo, I'm afraid that there was a car accident today involving your parents."

What?!

"Oh my god. Are- are Mom and Dad alright?" he asked, fearing the answer and half-knowing what it would be.

"I'm sorry, Frodo. Your father was killed instantly and your mother died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital."

Dead... they were dead? No, they couldn't be. He'd just seen them this morning, drinking their coffee together and seeing him off to school. He'd just... he'd just seen them...

The only other thing he ever remembered doing that day was bolting to the principal's trashcan and throwing up.

**x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x**

"My parents were two of the best people I've ever known," Frodo began. "I was an only child- and received enough love for twenty. My parents were kind, loving, caring people, with the biggest hearts you could ever see. They tried to instill a sense of honor and responsibility in me- sometimes that didn't work out so well," he let out a weak chuckle. "But in retrospect, it was one of the bravest things they could have done. I was never an easy child, but my parents never gave up. My mother, Primula, was a cheerful woman, with always a kind word to say for anyone, be they child or convict, and she loved Drogo very much. Father…" Frodo took a deep breath. "Father never made very much, and he had a fascination with boats, but what was important to him- what was _always_ important- was that his family got enough to eat and he was always helping people in the community. Sometimes they didn't accept it very easily," he said with a sideways glance at his mother's cousins, the Sackville-Bagginses, "But he always managed to help them even if it meant foregoing something himself."

Frodo could just _hear_ Pippin whispering to Merry. "Fore-whatsit? He knows not to use big words around us, Merry!"

He smiled briefly at the thought and continued. "My parents loved each other very much, and I know that wherever they are now, they're together, forever. They weren't always able to be with each other in life; Dad was always working, and Mom was busy being a housewife and volunteering at the homeless shelter. Both of them loved poetry by John Donne; and now I'm going to share one of their favorite poems with you- please take this time to remember them in life, as we cannot in death.

"_No man is an island,  
__Entire of itself.  
Each is a piece of the continent,  
A part of the main.  
If a clod be washed away by the sea,  
__Europe__ is the less.  
As well as if a promontory were.  
As well as if a manner of thine own  
Or of thine friend's were.  
Each man's death diminishes me,  
For I am involved in mankind.  
Therefore, send not to know  
For whom the bell tolls,  
It tolls for thee._"

Right on time, the bells in the tower above tolled twice, signaling the passing of two loving members of the community, and Frodo couldn't take it anymore. He nodded to the crowded chapel and made his way from the podium to sit between Gandalf and Pippin. The older man put a comforting arm around his shoulders and Frodo leaned against him, grateful for his strength as an older woman- Aunt Dora, he thought, began to walk up to give her own eulogy before he closed his eyes and waited for the service to end.

* * *

Hiro: So there ya go. Another chapter in The Fellowship. 


	3. Home Is Behind, The World Ahead

Fireblade K'Chona- Fixed. Thanks.

Thanks to Pasha ToH and Amber Stag.

Notes: I'm trying to build the setting now, so bear with me if this doesn't really resemble much of the original plotline for a bit. The whole Jews-are-going-to-hell at a Jewish funeral thing actually did happen to a relative of mine. I wasn't there to see it, (most unfortunately) but I was told about it in length afterwards. Mike must have been spinning in his coffin. (I'm surprised it didn't fall off the table.)

Serious Notes: Okay. Here we go. ((launches into speech)) One of the best pieces of advice for writers that I've ever heard is to _write what you know_. If you are writing a story about romance, place it in a setting that you are familiar with. I have not taken this advice to heart. I do not plan to, except in a few non-related non-fan-fiction stories. The reason for this is Dean Koontz. I love his books to death, but if you've ever read them, you'll soon realize that they're all set in the same place. Laguna Beach, California. I understand that he's basing off of what he knows, but reading about people based in Laguna Beach, time after time after time... And since his books have the same basic plotline except for a few, it all gets really old _really _fast. So I'm a bit leery about basing The Fellowship in South Florida or Northern New York (and I've not been in the latter for a long, long time,)- the only places that I've been in for long enough amounts of time to write about convincingly. So now I'm going to attempt to amaze the world about writing about places that I really can't remember or have never been to. Plus South Florida is _not_ a good place for Shires and Elven strongholds. Plus we have no Forest Rangers down here. We have the Everglades. Although that might be amusing as the Dead Marshes... And where the hell are you gonna find a _miner_ in South Florida? But enough of that. If there's someone that would like to advise me on the matter of how things go in rural-ish New York, please, please volunteer yourself. And I'd like if it was a beta-reader.

* * *

**The Fellowship, Chapter Three: Home Is Behind, The World Ahead.**

Gandalf levered himself into the chair across from Frodo and regarded the teenager thoughtfully.

"Your parents left you the house, and a tidy sum of money, aside from the life insurance," he began. "What do you intend to do with it?"

"College," Frodo said firmly. "I'm going to invest the money from the insurance policies, and I'll use whatever is left for the rest of my high school year. Since I'm already eighteen, I can use the money for whatever I want, and it's going into mutual funds. They may not save up very fast, but they're pretty secure, and-" he paused and took a deep breath. "I'd like to sell the house."

Gandalf's eyes widened. "Why?"

"Too many memories," Frodo said shortly. "Mostly good, but every time I look at the kitchen, I see Mom cooking something, or cleaning, and I see Dad in front of the T.V., watching football. It's just too much," he continued quietly, after a pause. "I want to sell the house, and maybe get an apartment."

The old man nodded. "I think I know a place, and it's within walking range of Samwise, Meriadoc, and Peregrin's homes."

Frodo looked up at him, interested.

"It also happens to be the home of your uncle Bilbo," Gandalf continued. "Your parents kept it because they failed to make any real estate agent see the worth of the home, and thus take it off their hands. Even the 'We Buy Ugly Houses,' people didn't want to buy it. So your parents kept it. It's rather dusty at the moment, I'm afraid, but a little work will make it perfectly fine, and I do think that you will find it quite hospitable, if a little oddly placed."

The teenager looked at him. "Oddly placed?" He asked quizzically.

"Er- I think you had best see it for yourself," Gandalf said quickly.

**x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x**

"A hill," Frodo said in disbelief. "You want me to live in a hill."

"It's a home that was built _into_ a hill, Frodo. It is not the hill itself."

"Same thing!" Frodo exclaimed. "You want me to live in a house that my insane uncle designed?"

The house in question was on the other side of a deteriorating white picket fence. It was actually on the outskirts of town; not _near_ any of his friends' houses, but it was closer than Frodo had been living before. As Frodo had said, the house _was_ built into a hill. The area around this part of the city tended to be uneven if you didn't bulldoze it, and Bilbo had apparently elected to build with the landscape; most of the one-acre property was a very large hill. There was a _round_ green door cut into the front, and all of the windows were round, too. Frodo shuddered to think what the inside was like.

Gandalf stared at him. "Your uncle was _not_ insane, Frodo. In reality, he was a very intelligent man; _not_ insane."

"That's actually kind of funny, seeing that I saw him when I was working at the Renaissance Festival a week ago," Frodo snapped.

"What?" Gandalf looked troubled. "Where?"

"I was heading back to my car at the end of the day and he dragged me into some bushes and started screaming about Sauron, Elves, and Mount Doom." Frodo rolled his eyes. "I'm not even sure if that was Bilbo. Hey-" he said, suddenly remembering. "He did ramble on for a while about a ring. And the weird part is that when I got home after I got away, I found a gold ring in one of my jacket pockets."

Gandalf's eyes glinted. "Do you still have this ring?" he asked, voice suddenly gone quiet.

"Yeah- it's back in my room in the house. Why?"

"Did it have anything written on it?" Gandalf insisted, ignoring Frodo's question. Intensity shone in his eyes, and it was unnerving Frodo a little; Gandalf had never seemed this... focused on something.

"Uh- no. It was just a plain gold band, kind of like a wedding ring. It didn't have any markings, though. Why? Was it yours?" he asked, even though he knew it was a stupid question; Gandalf was undisputedly a bachelor.

"No," Gandalf remarked absently. "That ring... Bilbo found it many years ago... when he vanished, I was sure he'd taken it with him and was using it to hide..."

He started muttering again, and Frodo decided to dismiss his ramblings as those of an old man. He pushed the gate to the pathway open; it promptly fell off the hinges and landed in the overgrown grass. "A little work?" he muttered sardonically.

The mailbox at the edge of the path said '_Bag End_,' and he wondered what it meant.

He walked carefully over the broken paving-stones of the path leading to the front door, passing delicately-wrought spiderwebs and once stepping over the paper-thin bones of a small bird. When he tried the door, it was locked. At least he knew vandals hadn't broken into the 'house.' He pulled the intricately wrought key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, pushing it open slowly; it was surprisingly heavy. The hallway inside the doorway was dim, both with dust and lack of light. He pushed the door open further and stared at the front hall.

"No way," he muttered. The hallway was shaped like a tube. The floor was tiled, which was nice, but the hallway was shaped like a _tube_. The walls were paneled with wood, and he could see branching passageways off of the hall, and at least one entryway into a room just off to the left. The main hallway continued for quite a few feet before sloping down and to the right.

"What the hell kind of person was my uncle? And who did he get to build this place?" He asked in wonder; even if the house _was_ really weird, it was kind of awe-inspiring in a way.

"He had friends," Gandalf said from behind him, spooking him so that he jumped. "Wonderful friends who were masters at their craft, and they helped him build this place. Not too shabby, eh?"

"I'll say," Frodo said. He walked down the long hallway to see where, exactly it led. Gandalf followed on cat-quiet feet, occasionally startling Frodo again as he peered into rooms only to bump into Gandalf when he pulled his head out. They followed the curve of the hall until Frodo was fairly sure that they were underground, even below the normal level of ground _and_ under the neighbor's yards, (one reason being the sudden cease of windows,) and there were still more rooms to see. The rooms' contents varied; bedrooms with drape-covered beds, recreational rooms with drop-cloths covering the gaming tables and televisions, living rooms with couches covered with pieces of cloth, what were obviously drinking rooms, bathrooms, pantries, closets... they had probably passed at least twenty on each side by now. Finally they came to the end of the tunnel, and Frodo breather a sigh of relief. Before them was a large, dark wooden door. When he tried the handle, he found that it wouldn't open; locked, then.

"How do I open it?" He asked Gandalf.

"Look at your key," the old man said.

Frodo examined the key he was still holding in his right hand, puzzled. Then he saw it; the end of the key for the front door was actually the key for the lock here- the old-fashioned key's end that he'd taken for decoration was a key in itself. The twisting metal had thrown him off, but he realized that it would fit perfectly into the lock of this final door. Cautiously, he pushed the key into the lock, fearing of breaking it, and turned. The door unlocked smoothly, much to his surprise; he'd expected trouble from the old lock. When he pushed the door open, he gaped in surprise. This was obviously the Master Suite of the house, and it was better than the VIP suites of many hotels that he'd seen on T.V. The front room had several expensive-looking couches pushed against the walls and was _twice_ the size of his bedroom at home. What made Frodo's jaw drop when he saw it, though, was the huge flatscreen television placed on one wall. There was no way that Bilbo had left _that_ all those years ago. Gandalf cleared his throat.

"Ah- seeing that I missed your eighteenth birthday, I bought you a present," he said, gesturing to the television.

"Awesome!" Frodo exclaimed. "Thank you so much!" He stopped short of hugging the old man, but beamed at him all the same as they continued into the bedroom. The bed was _huge_, even bigger than a king-size, and draped with a dust-covered blue and green coverlet that was obviously very expensive. Another open door led to the bathroom, and Frodo could see a tub and a huge shower inside, and there was a 30x30 regular T.V. in the corner, a small refrigerator under a wet bar near the door, and _two_ walk-in closets. He felt like he was in heaven. Screw the shape of the house and what it looked like; he was going to live here. Why hadn't his parents wanted to live here?

He asked Gandalf that question, and the old man shook his head. "Your mother was very close with her father's brother; and when Bilbo disappeared, she couldn't stand to come to the place where she knew her uncle had disappeared from. She kept your father from fixing up the place so they couldn't sell it. She always thought that as long as the house was empty, and he had somewhere to come home to, he would eventually come back. He never did."

"Oh." Frodo felt saddened at Gandalf's words. His mother had apparently loved Bilbo very much, and he felt a quiet anger that Bilbo had never come to see her before the accident.

"But now the house is still empty, and there is no need for it to remain so any longer. The house is yours, Frodo, to do with as you please. Although I do think that you'll have a hard time selling it," he continued with a small smile.

"Done," Frodo said instantly. "I'll move into here. I'll need some help with the furniture and stuff from the old house, and someone to help me sort through everything to decide what I want to keep, but I'd like to move in as soon as possible, since there's a four-day weekend coming up."

"Four days?" Gandalf asked. "How convenient."

"Well- Friday is an employee planning day, I obviously have Saturday and Sunday off, and then Monday is (find a holiday, preferably in August or September). So if you can help me..." he left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

"Of course," Gandalf answered. "Would you like your friends' help?"

"Hell yeah," Frodo said. "There's no way I can get through all of that stuff in two days. It was never a big house, but Mom and Dad always were packrats. Plus I don't think your back is up to handling furniture."

Gandalf's eyes gleamed with amusement. "You would be surprised, young Frodo. You would be surprised."

**x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x.X.x**

"I always knew your uncle was crazy," Pippin remarked as he helped Frodo pull a drape-sheet off of one of the couches in the living room of the master suite. He stared at the Vidal Grau couch that was upholstered in a pale rose, and then through the open bedroom door to the Cappelletti bed that was glowing in the soft light provided by an original Tiffany lamp with a green and white lotus-patterned green umbrella shade made of hundreds of tiny pieces of glass.

"He must have been, to leave all of this," Pippin continued. "I just don't get it, Mister Frodo. Something bad happens to you, then something great comes along, like this house."

"I'd give it all up for my parents back," Frodo said quietly.

Pippin looked sad for a moment, and then clapped Frodo on the back. "Ah, well. Your uncle _was_ crazy. Let's take advantage of that, shall we? You've got a lot of room here... can I move in with you?"

Frodo let out a chuckle. "No, Pippin. But we _are_ going to have a party soon. Food, drinks-" "Beer!" Pippin interrupted enthusiastically.

"No beer!" Frodo said, grinning at the memory. "Remember what happened last time?"

"Gargoyles and fireworks!" Pippin and Merry had been so drunk that they'd decided to play 'gargoyle' on Frodo's roof, hissing and throwing roof tiles at unlucky passerby, and they'd been _very_ determined to stay up there, despite Frodo's attempts to dislodge them with a broom and shoes.

Then, bored with that pastime, they found and set off a huge rocket that Gandalf had brought. The old pyrotechnics expert had built it himself, and it was to have been saved for the end, if not for Merry and Pippin. It had set quite a number of the guests to panicking; four fighter jets screaming over the house and firing small flaming projectiles into the air did not mix well with drunk teenagers.

"But I do have two movies that I think the guests will enjoy," Frodo said as Pippin folded the sheet and placed it on the growing pile in the corner.

Merry popped his head through the door. "And what would those be?"

"Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and Team America: World Police," Frodo said with a smile.

"But Team America's not slated to come out for another two months!" Merry protested, and Pippin looked intrigued.

"I told you, Gandalf was a pyrotechnics expert. It was his job for more than forty years, and he knows people. As long as he knows I'm not going to make copies and sell them early, he's letting me use his copy."

"Dude, that guy is so cool," Pippin said to Merry, grinning from ear to ear.

"Totally," Merry agreed as they pushed the couch into a forty-five degree angle in the corner of the room opposite the doorway to the rest of the house.

Frodo stood back and surveyed it, hands on his hips. "I like it," he said thoughtfully. "If I get some throws and maybe a few pillows, it'll look good." He surveyed the other two couches that were already uncovered; one was a loveseat- that was pushed against the wall nearest the bedroom door, and the other was a full-sized couch that was in another corner facing the T.V.

There was a low antique Travertine table in front of the larger couch, surmounted by a wrought-iron candlestand and a Kuharic lamp. An Oriental rug graced another corner, illuminated by the glow of a tall lamp that looked like a tree with glowing red fruit.

"On to the kitchen, troops!" he ordered the two troublemakers with what he hoped was a serious face.

"Yes sir!" Both boys saluted him and marched off with mock-stern faces, Frodo following alone behind. They found Samwise in the kitchen, cleaning a liberal amount of dust off of the surfaces of the various appliances.

"Frodo!" the young man said, nearly tripping over his words. "I'm almost done here. After I finish, you wanted me to go out and trim the hedges, right?" Sam was a gardener; Hamfast Gamgee was in the lawn service business, and Sam usually worked with him on weekends. It was a running joke between the boys that Sam would wind up running between a day job of lawn care and a night job at a 7-11 or a gas station, trying to earn enough money to eat whatever and whenever he pleased; Sam loved to eat, and his semi-plump body showed it.

"Then it's off to the 7-11, right? Frodo said, sending Merry and Pippin into fits of the giggles.

"I thought I was upgraded to Target worker last week!" Sam said, showing mock-indignation.

"Yeah, but then you offed and failed Preece's test, so we decided to demote you," Pippin choked out.

Sam rolled his eyes at Frodo, and Frodo rolled his back. The two boys currently laughing their heads off found humor in anything; even a funeral where the presiding minister went on at length about how people who didn't accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior were going to go to Hell; _at a Jewish funeral_. Needless to say, after Merry and Pippin had broken the shocked silence with their laughter, the minister had been thrown out of the funeral home and a Rabbi brought in. Sam polished the last pot and placed it on the rack with its gleaming brethren, slapped the towel down into the sink, and walked out the back door, whistling a folk tune as he went. Frodo caught the words and began singing along softly, Merry and Pippin soon catching on and turning it into a trio.

"_Home is behind, the world ahead_

_And there are many paths to tread_

_Through shadow, to the edge of night_

_Until the stars are all alight_

_Mist and shadow, cloud and shade_

_All shall fade, all shall fade._"

Then Pippin changed the tune to "What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor," and the house was filled with laughter again.


	4. The Shadow of the Ring

Date: 05/15/05 or thereabouts.

Fireblade K'Chona: I had friends that did that on Halloween. I couldn't get them off even with bricks. Then again, I did take away the ladder...

Pasha ToH- I guess the Valar have a backlog of muses to bless... mine only got blessed recently.

Templechild- Thanks.

Notes: 2 dead relatives + mother in rehab + 1 drama play + 1 orchestra concert(1 solo) equals late, late fic. Dig?

Serious Notes: Yah... for those of you who didn't understand that, a great-uncle died, a great-aunt died, my mother went to rehab, I had to work backstage at Company, I've been practicing for the orchestra concert and my solo, and writing more of Circles of Change. Oh, and trying to get up a website (didn't work...) and submitting the now correctly-formatted _Ashes to Ashes _to Strange Horizons. And trying to bring my grades up. (two Fs and a D+ in my three core classes was not good for my mental health.) And Prom. Let's not forget the horror of a week of running around, dropping people/things off, picking them up, and being the only transportation that my sister and grandmother have.

More Notes: Various parts of the conversation concerning the Ring was taken directly from _The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring_, by J.R.R. Tolkien (The book, not the movie). So credit goes to where credit is due.

* * *

**The Fellowship, Chapter Four: The Shadow of the Ring. **

Frodo flopped back onto his bed with a sigh and stared up at the ceiling, bored. After a moment, he turned onto his side and grabbed the remote from the end table and turned the television on. He flicked through the channels hoping to find something interesting to watch, and finally settled on _Daredevil_,with Ben Affleck.

Now that his senior year of high school was over, he had nothing to do except sleep and try to find a job. College was out of the question, at least for the moment; his parents were going to help him work his way through it, but since he had everything tied up in mutual funds, he couldn't use it, and didn't _want _to. If a rainy day ever came, he'd be screwed. So college was moot. He owned the house; only needed to pay for utilities, but even the costs for those weren't very much, despite all the horror stories he'd heard about electricity and water and insurance payments. Gas prices were somewhat high at the moment, but the bike didn't need much and could go far on a few gallons. So he was pretty much set, but there was nothing to do. He almost wished he was out exploring the world, taking part in an adventure- like something from a book.

It had only been a week since graduation, and classes had actually ended a week and a half before _that_, but he was bored already. He almost missed the Renaissance Festival; almost missed Algebra II. There may have been almost five hundred channels on the telly, barring the music channels, but movies got boring after a while. None of his three friends were ostensibly planning for college, either; Sam was too into his father's lawn business, and Pippin and Merry were too busy getting into trouble to worry about college. Gandalf was... Gandalf was _somewhere_. Frodo didn't know what the old man got up to these days, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. Even so, Frodo wished he was with the old man- _anywhere_ but here. You could be sure it was something interesting. He'd managed to regale Frodo and his friends one night with stories about some guy and a group of dwarves beating a dragon the size of a Boeing 747. None of them had believed him, but the old guy still told a great story...

Matt Murdock was just beginning to fight with Elektra Nachios on the playground when frantic banging resounded through the house, startling Frodo. He rolled off the bed and landed on the floor with a _thump_ and a 'ow,' before he jumped up and ran for the front door. Anything had to be better than this boredom, even if the diversion did come past the time when most people would even _call_, let alone visit. He reached the front 'hatch' just as the pounding stopped, and he was afraid that his mysterious caller might have given up and left. He disengaged the latch and flung the front door wide.

Before he could clear the entryway, Gandalf surged through the door, almost knocking Frodo into the wall. He seemed bigger and taller than usual; more menacing and yet also worried- very worried. Frodo found himself being dragged back down the hallway to the kitchen, and before he knew it he was in a chair at the kitchen table, seated across from a twitching Gandalf.

"Is it secret?" the bearded man asked Frodo in a harsh whisper. He slammed the door closed. "Is it safe?"

"W-what?" the teenager asked, startled. "What the hell? Is something wrong?"

"The Ring!" Gandalf hissed. "Where is it!"

"I-in my room," Frodo stammered. What was wrong with the old guy?

"Have you told anyone about it?" Gandalf persisted. "Does anyone know?"

"Know what, damnit?" Frodo snapped, annoyed. What was with the third degree?

At once, Gandalf seemed to shrink in upon himself. He became smaller, and soon he was 'himself' again; all six feet of his normal height. "My apologies, Frodo," he said. "I was- worried. There are plans afoot that are a danger to you; plans that revolve around that Ring that your uncle gave you."

Frodo stared at him. Gandalf was wearing an odd- was that a coverall underneath the coat? It was. The old pyrotechnic was wearing a form-fitting black coverall beneath a long black trenchcoat. And he was talking nonsense. Had the old man finally gone off the deep end?

"What are you wearing?" he asked finally, unable to come up with a more appropriate question.

"Clothing," Gandalf said dismissively. "I think- can you please bring me that Ring that Bilbo gave you?

Frodo eyed him. "Dude, it's eleven at night. Can't we talk about this in the morning?"

Gandalf made his opinion on that very clear. "No." He stared at Frodo, and the young man began to experience a vague feeling of unease. He relented and went to get the ring.

When he brought it back to the table, still in the white envelope he'd originally left it in, Gandalf stared at it, and Frodo felt that sense of unease grow stronger.

"Please take it out," the old man said wearily.

Frodo tore the envelope in half and shook the ring into his hand. "What the hell is this all about, Gandalf? If you want the ring, you can have it." He offered it to Gandalf, but the old man backed away. "I can't touch it."

The young man sighed. This was getting tiresome. Maybe he shouldn't have wished for someone to come.

Gandalf held up the ring, which looked like it was made of solid gold. "Can you see any markings on it?" he asked.

"No," said Frodo. "It's just a ring, but it wasn't scratched at all when I got it, and it's not scratched now. Kinda weird," he said thoughtfully.

"Here- do you have a fire of some sort?" Gandalf asked.

"Oh, yes," Frodo said sarcastically. "I keep a fire burning all hours of the day in the backyard. Let me show you."

Gandalf glared at him. "This is no time for jokes, boy."

Frodo rolled his eyes. "No, I don't have a fire. The only thing I have is a fire_place_. Wanna use that?"

Much to Frodo's dismay, Gandalf agreed.

Five minutes later, they were standing in front of a nicely-built fire in Frodo's living room.

"How did you do that so quickly?" Frodo asked, astonished.

"Trade secret," Gandalf muttered distractedly.

Then the old man completely shocked Frodo when he suddenly grabbed the ring out of the teenager's lax fingers and threw it into the blazing fire. Hurriedly, he wiped his hands on his trenchcoat.

"What are you doing!" Frodo cried angrily. He groped for the poker, intending to take the ring out of the fire before it was damaged. Gandalf stopped him with gentle hands on Frodo's shoulders.

"Wait." He stared into the fire intensely, and Frodo followed his gaze to the back right corner of the fireplace, where the ring gleamed in the dancing flames.

The teenager glared at the plain gold band. Nothing was happening. After a long while, Gandalf picked up the tongs and fished the ring out of the embers and held it up for Frodo's inspection.

"So?" Frodo asked sullenly.

Gandalf grabbed the younger man's hand and opened it, then _dropped the hot ring into Frodo's palm!_

Frodo yelled and yanked his hand away-

"It's quite cool," Gandalf said.

"Wh-"

The old man shushed him and peered at the lukewarm ring in Frodo's hand. Frodo stared, too.

Fine lines, finer than the finest pen-strokes of a master-calligrapher, were running along the outside and the inside of the ring; lines of fire that formed the elegant letters of a flowing script that Frodo couldn't understand. They glowed piercingly bright, and Frodo's eyes ached looking at them- they seemed to lead into a great depth where nothing mortal could go.

"The hell?" Frodo gasped in a quavering voice.

"It's as I feared," Gandalf said in a heavy voice. "You can't understand it?"

"No," Frodo said in a subdued voice.

"I can. The letters are Elvish, but the letters are those of Mordor, which I dare not utter here. But- in English, this is what it says, or close enough:

_One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them._

It's one line of a verse well-known to the Elves:

_Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,_

_Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,_

_Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,_

_One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne_

_In the Land of Mordor, where the Shadows lie. _

_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_

_One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them_

_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._"

He paused. "This is the _One Ring to rule them all_. The One Ring that he lost so long ago, that led to his defeat. He wants it back so badly- but he _must not_ _get it_."

Frodo stared at him again, nervously. "Gand, you're screwing around with me, right?" Gandalf said nothing. "Gandalf?"

"I'm afraid this _is_ the One Ring, Frodo. It's tale began back in the Black Times, which modern historians only remember as the Dark Ages. If I were to tell you everything of that time, we'd be sitting here until _they _found us. There was once a dark man, named Sauron-"

"The man who my uncle was raving about?" Frodo asked, nonplussed.

"Yes. Long ago, there was a being named Sauron. He endeavored to seduce the Eldar- the Elves- but only managed to win over the smiths of Eregion. When he seduced them, he instructed the best of them to make Rings. _Magic_ rings, as you might call them; like something from a fairytale. But they were real, and imbued with the magic of the Elf who forged it. Some were more powerful than others, and some only had the power to lend a little strength or protection to the wearer. The lesser rings were made only as practice, and to the Elven-smiths they were nothing, and of no danger- yet still dangerous for mortals. But the Great Rings, the Rings of Power, ah, they were perilous indeed.

"A mortal who keeps a Great Ring will not die, but he doesn't grow or obtain more life. He just... continues with life until every minute is a hell, until every minute is so hard to get through that he just wants to die.

"And often, that is what happens to the current bearer of the One Ring. This Ring has a special power- that to make the wearer invisible, but even that is dangerous. If the mortal uses the Ring to become invisible often, he fades; becomes invisible permanently, in the end, and walks in the twilight of the dark power that rules the Rings. Sooner or later... later if he was strong or well-meaning, sooner if weak and malicious, the dark power will devour him."

The teenager stared at Gandalf, wide-eyed. "You can't honestly believe that that's true, can you? _Magic?_ Magic is for children, Gandalf; children and fools."

The old man sighed. "I thought you would see it that way. Frodo, you must believe me. There are... things on their way to kill you right now!"

Frodo scoffed. "Right. And all this talk about Elves. Are the Elves coming to kill me?"

"No," Gandalf said, suddenly saddened. "The Elves are in hiding; they have been since the end of the Dark Ages. Before Sauron's end, the Church declared them anathaema, and many were killed in the ensuing religion-versus-nature conflict. I'm afraid the start of that was Sauron's doing; he was never killed, only weakened by the loss of his Ring. The Elves participated in the last battle, then went underground, only to be remembered in myth and legend. They've begun to creep back into the world as of late, but not many, and not as Elves."

"Nice way to explain the absence of Elves," Frodo said. "So who is coming to kill me?"

"The Nine Men. The Nazgul are coming to kill you and take your Ring back to Sauron. If the Ring returns to him, then all is lost. Civilization will crumble, and the Elves will not be able to amass the numbers they once had. Humans will not accept their existence, and most likely declare war on both Sauron _and _the Elves. The current world may be leaning more towards acceptance, but if you look at any newspaper, most of them are still against abortion rights, gay marriage rights, and there are humans constantly warring, always because of religion. Can you imagine what would happen if something that most people- regardless of their religion- are fundamentally opposed to appeared in their midst? Chaos, Frodo. Chaos."

"The Nine Men. Would they be the same Men you mentioned in the rhyme?"

"Yes. They are Men of the darkest kind. Once they were all kings in their own right, and accepted the Rings. Eventually they died, and fell under the dominion of the One Ring. They faded into shadow and became Ringwraiths, Sauron's most terrible servants. It has been a long time since they've been seen- once, before they all fell they were called the Four Horsemen- four of the Men had succumbed to the shadows, and walked the earth. Many a religion adopted them into their own theology. It was only when the other five, among them the greatest king- now the Chief of the Ringwraiths- appeared, that the battles between the forces of darkness and the combined armies of Men and Elves truly began. And now Sauron's servants come to kill you."

"I still say you're lying," Frodo said cynically. "Magic- Elves- _Dwarves_- they don't exist, and they never have."

Gandalf got The Glint in his eye. "If I could prove it to you, young Frodo, what would you say?"

"Which one? _Magic_?"

"Yes, Frodo. Magic."

"Go ahead and try," Frodo said. "I doubt I'll believe you."

The old man merely closed his eyes and steepled his fingers in front of his long nose. Frodo felt a slight tingling in the air, like one might feel during a dry thunderstorm with lightning. Past the entryway to the living room, something moved in the shadows of the hallway from the direction of the front door, and Frodo squeaked, hand closing about the cool metal of the Ring. The thing moved into the flickering light cast by the fire, revealing itself to be a long, somewhat stocky gun- an assault rifle.

"An AKM," Gandalf told him. "Modified for automatic fire."

Frodo eyed it. "It's floating."

"Yes it is," Gandalf told him somewhat cheerfully. "Now do you believe in magic?"

The teenager ignored the question. "Do I want to know why you have that?" he asked Gandalf dubiously, the conversation from before still running through his mind. Was the old pyrotechnic becoming a fanatic over this fantasy? Frodo doubted it, just as he was beginning to doubt this was just a fantasy.

The gun floated over to Gandalf, who plucked it out of the air and set it down on the table between himself and Frodo.

"Do you?" Gandalf repeated.

Frodo stared at the rifle, then back up at Gandalf. As much as he hated to admit it, it looked like magic was real. He reached forward and picked up the gun, trying to find any hidden wires or tricks. Nothing. Just smooth, cold, deadly and slightly oily metal.

"The Nazgul are coming, Frodo," whispered Gandalf. "Will you give them the Ring so easily?"

Shock washed over Frodo when he realized that all of this was real. Then panic replaced that when it hit home that people were coming to kill him.

He thrust the Ring at Gandalf. "Take it, then! I don't want anyone coming to KO me!"

"No!" Gandalf cried, leaning away slightly. "I dare not take it. If I did, I would have power both great and terrible, and the Ring would have power even greater and more deadly over me. Don't tempt me. I do not wish to become like Sauron. The Ring would gain way to my heart through pity; pity for weakness and the desire of strength to do good, but in the end I would become as corrupt as Sauron. I cannot even keep it safe and unused; it's siren song is too seductive for even my will. No, Frodo. The decision lies with you. We must away from here quickly. The holder of the Ring was betrayed to Sauron's forces, and they are undoubtedly on their way here as we speak. I must take you somewhere safe; to Rivendell, perhaps- the Elves will know what to do with the Ring," he said, gesturing to Frodo's clenched fist. "The only way to be rid of it is to find the Cracks of Doom in the depths of Orodruin, the Fire-Mountain. There, the Ring must be cast into the fire, to put it beyond His grasp forever. I do not know who will be brave or strong enough to take on that task. But-" he said, eyes growing soft as he looked at Frodo with something akin to pity, "I will always help you. I will help you bear this burden, as long as it is yours to bear. But we must do something, soon. The Enemy is moving."


End file.
